Author's Note: Well, well, well. If you're reading this, I love you. I recently finished watching this, and I just... wow. Anime is great, and certainly offered me inspiration when I needed it.
As I said in the summary, this fic is based on the anime series called No.6. I highly recommend that you watch it, but you don't have to in order to read this fic. It's not completely the same. However, this scene does in fact happen in the very first episode of the series. Dean's character is based off of Nezumi/Rat, Castiel's is based off of Shion/Sion, and Anna's is based off of Safu
Oh, and totally random, but the title of this comes from the English translation of "Rokutousei no Yoru", which plays during the ending credits of No.6. Cool stuff, right?
Anyway, enough of that. I really hope that everyone enjoys this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Come talk to me on tumblr and twitter whenever you'd like!
In the chill of an underground room, somewhere on the outskirts of No.6, a little girl and her brother huddled close. Between them sat a third person, the person they had come to see. These days, many children flocked to this room to hear the melodic voice of Castiel reading from the frayed pages of one of his companion's extensive collection of stories.
Huddled together on a surprisingly comfortable red couch, they peered up into Castiel's scarlet eyes. He smiled back at them, wispy strands of snow white hair tickling his lips. "What story would you like me to read today? Macbeth?"
The two siblings shared a conspiratorial glance. Karan, the sister, nodded and turned her attention back to Castiel. "Actually, we were hoping you could tell us one of your own stories."
"My stories?"
"Yeah… the one about how you and Dean met," the little boy mumbled, playing with the frayed hem of his shirt.
To their relief, Castiel didn't seem to be offended by their request. Of course, the only way you could possibly upset him was if you insulted Dean. Everyone knew that a single comment could land you six feet beneath the ground. He could actually be pretty scary when he wanted to be.
"I suppose," Castiel chuckled softly, "I've never actually done this before, though, so bear with me."
"That's fine," the two chimed in unison. Excited, they snuggled even closer to Castiel, propping their elbows on each of the young man's thighs. People listened to Castiel read from novels and plays all the time, but not once had anyone asked to hear about his own history.
"Alright, well, I was only twelve years old when we first met…"
Castiel clutched the sweater close to his chest, rubbing the thick fabric absentmindedly between his thumb and forefinger.
Anna was right. Even though it was not one of the synthetic materials people commonly used throughout No.6, it still felt like it could stand up to just about anything. When she'd excitedly offered it to Castiel, gazing at him as if he had hung the moon and the stars in the sky, he'd gratefully accepted it. But, frankly, he hadn't realized how truly thankful he was for it until now. Something about the weight of it in his arms, the scratchy fabric brushing against his skin with every step, led him to believe he would wear it often and make good use out of it.
Castiel sighed loudly and stepped over to the panel on the wall. Every room in his house came equipped with a remote control of sorts. The little electronic tablet popped out of the wall and allowed its user to manipulate practically everything in the room, ranging from the lighting to the speakers to the window leading out to the porch. It also allowed him to keep in touch with his mother who spent most of her time in her room or in the kitchen.
His eyes suddenly felt heavy, posing the unwelcome challenge of fighting to keep them open. He just came from Anna's grandmother's house where he'd spent the past few hours casually exploring the older woman's closet and making small talk over dinner. During class about a week ago, Anna had insisted he come over to celebrate his twelfth birthday at her grandmother's place. He had suggested bringing over one of his mother's cakes, but Anna refused; she wanted to bake the cake. The one she'd made, with its creamy frosting and rich flavor, had been a pleasant surprise. He could've easily eaten the entire thing in one sitting.
Overall, his visit hadn't felt any different than past occasions. As a matter of fact, this particular visit had actually been better than most, what with the delicious pastry and opportunity for casual conversation, this time with people other than his mother. Not that he minded all that much. She spent many nights cradling Castiel against her chest, listening to all of his problems, offering words of wisdom and encouragement. Of course, he could talk to Anna- she would gladly listen to him drone on and on about anything- but he didn't trust anyone the way he did his mother. So, yes, he had enjoyed himself greatly, but Anna's grandmother… something she said had struck a nerve.
"Everything is taken care of for us here in No.6," she'd mused. The statement probably didn't have any animosity behind it, but it didn't sit well with Castiel. Then, with the same wistful look in her eyes, she went on to say that she never knew what to do with herself and spent her time knitting because there was nothing else for her to do in the magnificent utopia that was No.6. Castiel found each comment to be quite unsettling. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in the multitude of coats and clothing in the older woman's closet, to hide from the disturbing and possibly dangerous thoughts that the remarks had brought to the forefront of his mind.
Oh, and the kiss. How had he forgotten that? Before he and Anna had departed, standing out in the downpour brought on by the latest typhoon, she leaned over and placed a small kiss on his cheek. It felt… nice. Anna had clearly intended it to mean something more, though, and he regretted telling her he didn't see it the same way she did. He couldn't understand why it was any different from the kiss his mother had given him that morning. Both had made him feel warm, like he was floating on a cloud high above the world without a care in the world. When he had told her the truth, she became defensive and hadn't hesitated to send Castiel away, regardless of the fact that, only seconds before, she'd been desperate to keep him around.
Standing in his room now, Castiel pondered everything that'd happened to him in the past twenty-four hours. The way people had reacted to his acceptance into the honors program, the way Anna's grandmother had spoken of No.6, the way Anna had kissed him and called him strange for looking forward to the impending storm.
As strange as it might sound, Castiel could hardly wait for the evenings when a storm tore through the city. He wanted to feel the rain hitting his skin, feel the wind toss his hair around and ruffle his clothing. Nature captivated him on a level most people wouldn't and obviously couldn't understand. No one expressed the same appreciation for the blustering breeze or floating leaves; it was a shame.
His mother would probably scold Castiel later, but he could care less. He swiped his finger across the button that opened the window to the outside and turned. His room, like his mother's, had two floors. The bottom floor, where he currently stood, had a sitting area and a small closet filled with keepsakes, including his old trophies and textbooks. Secretly, he'd considered pitching them, but his mother insisted that he keep them. "They have sentimental value," she claimed every time he brought it up.
Meanwhile, his bed and bookshelves could be found on the second floor. That was the place he spent most of his free time. He always liked the view from his bed, the fact that he could peer over the second floor banister in the morning and watch the sunset or lie in bed at night and peer up at the constellations.
The glass panes of the window spanned the entire wall opposite the staircase and second-story bed space. Like his bed, the desk on the first floor allowed him to stare out at the surrounding area. There had been several occasions in the past when he had become distracted while composing a thesis and caught himself looking out over the treetops, lingering on the leafy branches before drifting to the buildings off in the distance.
And, as he knew from many storms in the past, that same view was even more impressive with the window open.
The moment the panes separated and moved apart, the wind filtered through and made itself at home in his room. Castiel ran headlong into it, unfazed by the merciless gusts of wind and heavy downpour, and didn't think twice about what he was about to do. The curtains fluttered furiously and papers flew in every direction. Rain drops struck Castiel's face and his exposed arms. He had yet to change out of his green sweater vest, button-down, and khaki's, all of which were covered in tiny droplet-shaped water stains.
He walked out onto the porch and turned his gaze up to the sky. Completely out of the blue, the urge to tilt his head back and yell at the top of his lungs struck him like a slap across the face. The dark clouds and ceaseless downpour shrouded everything in a fantastical haze, and, everywhere he looked, he knew without a doubt in his mind that this was the true power of nature.
How incredible! He'd never, in all of his monotonous and pathetically boring days, felt anything quite like it before. He wanted to jump and dance and fling his arms out as he spun in a circle. Unable to hold it back any longer, he grabbed the banister, leaned his head back, and screamed.
He screamed for the children who confronted him about the honors program. He screamed for Anna and her soft lips and fiery spirit. He screamed for her grandmother and the ridiculous amount of free time she had at her disposal. And, lastly, he screamed for himself. For the boy who wanted nothing more than to experience the world for more than what he saw at face value, to explore the unknown, no matter how dangerous that might be.
Time seemed to fly by, carried away by the winds of the storm. Castiel wasn't sure how long he stood out on the porch yelling like a buffoon. He eventually stopped, and his eyes fluttered shut. Rain had a particular odor, fresh and sweet, like the dew on the carefully trimmed blades of grass in his garden in the morning. Other smells mixed in with the heavy shower's aroma, and Castiel eagerly breathed it all in.
How could anyone completely isolate themselves from this? How could they resist running out into a storm to fully experience nature's insurmountable might?
Satisfied, Castiel reopened his eyes and straightened back up again. He was about to let out one more triumphant cry, just for the fun of it, when the obnoxious sound of his room's built-in alarm began to blare. The sound was nothing like that of the storm, which Castiel welcomed- quite literally- with open arms.
Surprised and, admittedly, a little scared, he stepped back into his room and quickly strode over to the wall panel. A huge red box with the word "WARNING" in block letters filled the tiny screen. He was baffled. What could it possibly-
Castiel swallowed. He felt the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck raise and his shoulders tense. Someone was watching him.
He slowly turned back toward the window, heart pounding wildly in his chest. The intruder, whoever was watching him, must've slipped in without him noticing, when he'd opened the window. Guilt rippled through his body at the thought. He'd been careless, and now a potentially dangerous stranger was in their house.
But, when he gave the "dangerous intruder" a quick once-over, his worry receded. Standing in the open window only a few feet away was a boy. That's right- a boy. He wore a ratty plaid shirt that was clearly too big for him and shorts that also seemed like they would be better suited for someone larger. Unlike Castiel's dark, shaggy hair, the boy's short golden brown hair didn't move much when the wind attempted to play with it and toss it about.
Standing there, folded in on himself with his head down, the young intruder looked frail and helpless. His right hand was clamped tightly around his left bicep, which, to Castiel's horror, was covered in blood. It seeped through his fingers and trickled slowly down his arm. A small puddle of the sticky red fluid had already started to form on the floor around him.
Castiel opened his mouth to speak, ready to tell the boy that he needed to stop the bleeding before things became serious, but was immediately silenced by blood-smeared fingers clasping around his neck. The boy moved surprisingly fast, and Castiel's brain hadn't quite caught up with what was happening.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
Castiel felt his breath catch in his throat, heart pounding frantically in his chest, ready to burst out of his chest at any moment. The boy pressed Castiel up against the wall, holding him in place with the hand he was using to choke him. He could barely breathe, gasping for air, lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. Startled, Castiel stared down at the intruder.
"Don't move," the boy growled. His voice was deep, far too deep to be that of a young child. It further piqued Castiel's interest and drove him to speak, even though his Adam's apple was being squeezed and would likely shatter within the next few seconds if the boy refused to slacken his grip.
"You're hurt."
"Shut up. I could kill you if I-"
"I can tend to your wounds," Castiel managed to choke out. Most people would probably think he was insane, offering up his assistance to someone who wanted him dead. But the desire to help someone in need, someone who might slip out of consciousness within the next few minutes if not treated properly, was too strong. Unlike Anna, Castiel didn't comply with the concept of always trusting logic rather than a gut feeling.
The boy regarded him cooly, peering up at him with narrowed eyes. At this distance, Castiel couldn't help but notice their brilliant color. Forest green lined the outer rim, while the center contained flecks of gold and a light shade of brown. They were stunning, even like this, furious and illuminated only by the gleam of the wall panel and the natural light of the night sky.
"Why would you do that?" the boy asked skeptically. He didn't seem convinced, but, of course, he knew nothing about Castiel. However, with those striking eyes, he felt like the boy managed to see right through the calm and courteous façade he maintained for his classmates, best friend, and mother.
"I know how to do it. Besides, if they're not tended to soon, you may go into shock. Or something. I'm not exactly sure what will happen, but, no matter what, I know that it won't end well," Castiel insisted. He could barely speak and hoped silently that the boy could make out what he was saying. Of course, he was the one strangling Castiel so if he couldn't decipher his garbled words, it was his own fault.
Before the boy could answer, the familiar trilling of the panel's call notification filled the room. This wasn't good. His mother must've heard all of the commotion; there was no way she would overlook all of the noise coming from her teenage son's room, even if he appeared to be the very image of innocence.
"Please, I'll help you," Castiel begged. He raised his arm and gestured toward the panel. "I won't tell her about you. I swear, just let me talk to her."
Although Castiel had just met him, he could already tell that the boy's eyes served as a direct window into his soul, just like the open window, offering a glimpse into the chaotic mess and maelstrom of emotions within. Those brilliant green irises said everything he couldn't put into words. And right now, they told Castiel everything he needed to know. The boy clearly didn't want to place his trust in a stranger, but, with his current options, that "stranger" was his best choice.
He reluctantly loosened his grip and shifted his gaze to the wall panel. Castiel took it to be an agreement and lifted his arm, pressing his knuckle to the "answer" button.
"Hey, mom, what's wrong?"
"Did you leave your window open again? I heard the alarm going off," his mother wondered. She sounded irritated. Castiel understood her frustration; this wasn't the first time they'd discussed the window situation.
"Oh, yeah. I did."
"I told you not to do that," she sighed, "you'll catch a cold."
"I know, I'm sorry," Castiel replied, pouring every ounce of sincerity he could into the apology. He needed to convince her nothing was wrong. Otherwise, she wouldn't drop the issue, and he'd have to send the boy, the one bleeding out on his carpet, away. Castiel reasoned that he wouldn't make it far on foot before he passed out. "It won't happen again."
He pressed his knuckle to the button that would close the window and waited. An excuse- he needed to come up with an excuse. And fast. His mother wouldn't understand his need to treat the bleeding boy, especially since he was currently choking and threatening her son.
"Um, mom, listen, I need to work on a report for school. Is it okay if I eat dinner in my room tonight? I don't want to stay up too late having to finish it." When in doubt, use schoolwork as an excuse, Castiel mused with a smirk. It always worked. He wrote numerous reports nowadays thanks to the honors program so it only made sense that he spent some nights holed up in his room, all alone, furiously typing a thesis or research assignment.
"Aw, you poor thing," his mother cooed, "That must be so hard! I'll have your dinner ready soon, and you can come down and get it, alright?"
"Sure, sounds good. Thanks, mom."
The line went silent, leaving Castiel completely alone with the drenched boy who continued to regard him doubtfully. Well, it wasn't like he hadn't been alone to begin with, but the reassuring sound of his mother's voice made it feel as if she were actually present, ready to protect Castiel if the stranger decided to attack. Without the connection, he felt vulnerable. The boy reluctantly drew his arm back, allowing Castiel to finally breathe normally once again. He eagerly gulped in air and struggled to regain his composure. It wasn't often that he found himself pressed to the wall by someone who intended to kill him.
"We need… to stop… the bleeding," he panted and took a step away from the wall. The boy jumped back, widening his stance. Castiel didn't understand; the boy looked afraid. He was the last person the boy should be afraid of. Especially considering the fact he'd agreed to help him and keep him from bleeding to death.
Castiel ignored the sneer on the other boy's face and sprinted toward the door to his closet. He would've turned around to make sure the boy was following but knew it wasn't necessary. No matter how distrusting and stubborn he was, he didn't seem like an idiot. The wound would only get worse if he didn't treat it, and he understood that.
The nearest bookshelf, the first one you saw when you walked in, held his trophies from elementary school. He supposed that those were of value. He had no use for them in this situation, though, and stepped past them to the other shelf where he kept his textbooks. A white box with a red cross emblazoned on the front sat on the bottom shelf. He reached down and pulled it out. It had been years since he'd actually used it.
He looked back to see if the boy really was as smart as he previously thought, and, sure enough, he'd already sat himself next to the tiny closet's only light source. His legs were crossed, as well as his bony arms. Castiel didn't know a great deal about body language, but he remembered a conversation he'd had with Anna about the topic. The boy's position revealed just how uncomfortable he felt in Castiel's room, how nervous and afraid he was, impatiently waiting as blood continued to drip from his elbow.
Smiling usually helped to relieve some tension, and, unable to come up with anything better, Castiel flashed him a grin. The boy smirked but nothing more. Taking it as an invitation, Castiel settled into the space beside him. He assumed the same cross-legged position and set the first aid kit on the ground in front of him. The box didn't have a lock, and Castiel easily opened it and pulled out a roll of gauze.
Although he'd never actually given someone stitches before, he knew the steps and techniques that the simple procedure required. He pushed back the boy's bloody sleeve and knew immediately that stitches would be necessary.
"So, you're enrolled in the honors program?"
The question caught Castiel off guard. He clipped off the strip of gauze he would later use to wrap around the boy's bicep and glanced up at his face. Those wide, forest green eyes flicked away when they met Castiel's, but he knew that the boy had been tracking every single one of his movements. At this point, Castiel couldn't tell whether he was still skeptical or merely curious.
"Yeah, I start next month."
"Well, how impressive. You must have a high IQ."
Castiel scowled. He hated it when people dragged his IQ into a conversation. What did it matter? He was more than just a number. Besides, the boy sounded snide when he made the remark. Castiel pressed the disinfectant to the wound and couldn't keep the smirk off his face when the boy winced and yelped in pain.
"Are you making fun of me?" Castiel snapped, continuing to clean the wound.
"No. A Rank A in your class at the age of two would've easily landed you in the best educational program around. And if you've been accepted into the honors program at the age of twelve, that really is pretty damn impressive."
Castiel hadn't been paying much attention to the boy's assessment of his academic background. Instead, he held the syringe with anesthetic in front of his face and excitedly raked his gaze over the needle. The boy looked over at where Castiel sat and quickly slid away, staring at the syringe like he had just seen a ghost.
"What are you doing? What the hell is that?"
"Local anesthesia, of course."
"Wow, wow, wait a second," the boy croaked, never once taking his eyes off the needle, "why is local anesthesia necessary?"
"You need stitches."
"Stitches? You ever done this before?" The boy's eyes bugged out of his head. He shifted back even further and held his hand out in a placating gesture. He looked truly and utterly terrified. Castiel had to stop himself from laughing out loud; he still couldn't believe anyone could possibly be afraid of him, of all people.
"Of course not! I'm majoring in ecology. But I do have a basic understanding of how to suture blood vessels," Castiel explained. He didn't want to lie to him. If he really were as disbelieving as he seemed, he wouldn't take kindly to Castiel lying about something as important as whether he'd ever treated another person's wounds before.
"Well. Basic understanding, you say?" He bit down on his lower lip and appeared to mull the situation over in his head. It didn't take long, though, for him to make his decision. Grimacing, he slid closer to Castiel and reached out his arm. Yet again, Castiel noted that the boy was, by no means, an idiot.
He carefully pierced his skin with the needle and released the anesthetic into the boy's system. He cringed and grunted in pain as it entered his body. Even though Castiel couldn't see whether he was being observed, the familiar feeling of being watched let him know that the boy wanted to know exactly what was being done to him.
"Your arm should feel numb. Here, press this gauze to the wound. It'll stop any extra bleeding." Castiel brought a bit of the gauze up to the wound and held it there, flashing the boy a reassuring grin.
Thankfully, he did as he was instructed and held the tiny square in place. His penetrating stare didn't waver, didn't stray once from his caretaker. They held an intensity that Castiel couldn't believe belonged to a twelve year old boy, even one that was recovering from blood loss. He must be a fugitive or something, Castiel speculated.
"Buddy, you are so weird."
"Huh? Why?" Castiel asked, genuinely curious. He'd been called many things before- intelligent, kind, intuitive- but never weird. Not even the children at school who teased him for enrolling in the honors program referred to him as "weird."
"You haven't even asked for my name."
"Oh, I guess you're right. But I haven't given you my name either," Castiel clarified. He had completely forgotten that the boy had a name. It hadn't seemed significant, what with everything else going on. The whole "bleeding out" thing? Yeah, that was probably more important than a simple name when someone's life was on the line.
"It's Castiel. Like the angel," the boy deadpanned.
"Uh, yeah, actually," Castiel croaked. How on earth had he known that? "My dad… he used to be very religious." His father and mother both majored in theology, a field of mythological studies that few people took an interest in anymore. From what Castiel heard, it had been more popular around the time the city-states were first founded. Its popularity had diminished in the last century. "What's your name?"
"Dean."
"Dean?"
"Dean," he repeated without any sort of inflection.
"That… for some reason, that doesn't feel right." Castiel couldn't think of how to put it into words. The name wasn't common in No.6. And, although his own name seemed stranger and, from experience, more difficult to say, he felt like a "Castiel." This boy, for some bizarre reason, didn't look like a "Dean."
Dean had no response. He merely stared at Castiel, tightlipped and skeptical. Apparently, he had no problem with the name, and probably thought Castiel was even weirder for thinking such an outlandish thing.
"Well, I better stitch you up," Castiel mumbled. The last thing he wanted was the boy to find another reason not to trust him. He glanced down at the first aid kit and pushed aside the rolls of gauze, pulling the needle and thread out. The prospect of performing a procedure he'd never done before didn't make him as nervous as it probably should; he found the idea to be exhilarating. "How did you get this anyway?"
"I was shot."
Castiel nearly dropped the needle. There was no way he'd heard that right. "Shot? Like with a gun?"
"Yeah," Dean grumbled, refusing to offer a better or lengthier explanation. He was a man of few words.
"I thought that guns were restricted to demon hunters? They're the only people that need them."
"Exactly."
Castiel blinked. No. No, it couldn't be. This boy, this innocent-looking boy with striking green eyes and soft features, couldn't possibly be a demon. Castiel had read extensively about the beasts the police force kept out of No.6, and they sounded nothing like the person sitting beside him. He remembered pouring over textbooks with diagrams, every single one depicting demons as tall, broad-shouldered men and women with depthless eyes and a lust for human blood. Even though they were only artist renditions, the faces always appeared angry and mischievous, a hint of bloodlust in their cold, lifeless gaze.
"You're… but how? You don't look like one! And the black eyes- you don't have those. Plus, the government would never hunt you down at this age." Castiel's hands shook, and he couldn't make them stop. Demons were monstrosities that killed for fun, not innocent boys with bony limbs and thin shoulders. Had he been trying to get into the city? What other reason would the hunters have for hunting a young demon like Dean?
"There's more to it than that," Dean replied cryptically. He turned his head away and winced as Castiel drew the needle out and prepared to apply another stitch to the wound. "Your precious No.6 doesn't need a reason to hunt us. We're demons and that's reason enough."
Castiel had a million questions. He was curious by nature and despised vague answers. But he knew that pressing the issue would be stupid. Dean had provided his response and, from the cold distant look in his eyes, that was the extent of the explanation Castiel was getting.
Although Castiel knew he should force Dean to leave, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He knew deep down that the young demon, this child, was no monster. He was sure of it.
Castiel's mother was a sweet and deceptively strong woman, but she could also be incredibly naïve. When he walked into the kitchen, offering a brief "hey" when he entered the room, she spared him a fleeting glance before closing her eyes and resuming her nap. He quickly ladled some chicken soup into a bowl and cut a substantial slice of his mother's pie, placing both on a spare tray. He hoped that Dean would like his mother's cooking as much as he did. No matter what, though, he needed to eat something.
Slipping through the door and into the darkness that awaited him, Castiel reentered his room. He set the plate of food down on his desk and looked up toward the second floor. Dean's back was turned and the lack of light made it difficult to see, but Castiel could still make out the way he held the sweater in front of his face, inspecting it.
"You have some pretty poor taste. Bleh."
Castiel rolled his eyes. He strode across the room toward the wall panel, planning to turn the lights on as the dark steadily crept its way into his room. Navigating the space presented a considerable challenge, though, even if he had spent endless hours there since he'd achieved his Rank A classification and moved in. "You're one to talk. Have you ever taken the time to look at yourself in the mirror?"
"Hm," Dean huffed, not nearly as amused by Castiel's attempt at humor as he was, "What are you doing? Don't turn the light on."
"Why not? I can't see anything," Castiel cried. Maybe demons had better night vision than human beings.
"Do you mean to tell me that you don't know your own room well enough to move around in the dark?" Dean wondered.
Castiel overlooked the comment and settled for muttering insults under his breath instead as he ascended the stairs. He didn't know many insults anyway, and the young demon would likely make fun of him for his pathetic efforts. If he opened his mouth, he would never hear the end of it.
Frustrated by his strained vision, Castiel sighed heavily as he reached the final step and froze. Dean had lifted the plaid shirt over his head and was now tugging the scratchy purple sweater over his small frame. Castiel wasn't staring openly at him because he was half-naked; he was staring at the star-shaped scar that spanned from the space between his shoulder blades down to his lower back. The skin looked ugly and puckered, a stark contrast to his pale complexion. He wondered idly how it had gotten there but the potential reasons for such a large scar made him sick so he refrained from asking.
He also wondered if demon's had hidden eyes on the back of their head when Dean tugged the sweater down the rest of the way and turned to face Castiel with a disgusted grimace on his lips. "What?" he snapped, forest green eyes flicking everywhere except where Castiel stood.
"Nothing. I, um. I'm sorry," Castiel mumbled. He was thankful for Dean's inability to make eye contact as he felt the warmth of a flush creep up his neck and across his cheeks. "I heard them mention you on the news. D104551. You're famous."
Dean scoffed and threw himself down onto Castiel's mattress, arranging himself in the same cross-legged position from earlier. The sweater clearly belonged to a larger boy. It hung off of Dean's shoulders in a way that made him seem even smaller than he had when he'd first stepped into Castiel's room. The realization shocked him. Dean had looked fairly small to begin with; Castiel couldn't believe there was an article of clothing that further dwarfed him.
"Much better in person, wouldn't you say?" Dean replied cheekily. He opened his mouth, likely preparing to make another crude remark, but stopped when he noticed the tray in Castiel's hands. He pursed his thin lips.
"I don't need this. You can have it. My mom is a pretty good cook." Castiel put on his best "please trust me" smile and held the tray of food out in Dean's direction. Clearly startled by the gesture of kindness, he looked down at the bowl of soup and slice of apple pie and then back up at Castiel's hopeful expression. After a few tense seconds, he snatched the tray quickly out of the boy's hands and placed it in his lap.
The apple pie happened to be one of Castiel's favorite pastries. Well, at least when it was prepared the way his mother made it. The rich flavor of baked Granny Smith apples and cinnamon along with the flaky texture of the crust made his mouth water just thinking about it. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy her other dishes. The small bowl of chicken noodle soup, wisps of steam rising from its surface, also caused Castiel's hunger to resurface. If it weren't for the demon's unnaturally pallid complexion and weakened state, he might have been tempted to take the food for himself, polishing it off before he even made it back to his room.
Dean hesitantly brought a piece of pie to his lips. He'd seemed apprehensive when Castiel initially set the meal in front of him, but, with the promise of sustenance so close, he eagerly slipped the fork tongs between his lips. He chewed slowly, eyes closed, and swallowed. "'S pretty good," he admitted.
"Told you," Castiel trilled triumphantly. He considered going back downstairs to offer Dean some privacy, but his curiosity got the better of him. Careful as to not spook his reluctant guest, Castiel lowered himself onto the bed beside Dean. "Can I ask you something?"
"I figure you're going to ask no matter what I say so go ahead," Dean sighed. He clearly intended to offend Castiel, but there was a fondness to his tone that belayed his real feelings. Like Castiel, he appeared to enjoy the companionship, and he couldn't help but wonder whether demons like Dean even had friends.
"How did you get into the city? The police force's job is to keep demons out, and they seem to do a good job of it. I've never seen one before. Well, up until now," Castiel explained, glancing at his hands which lay clasped in his lap. "And so young… how? How did you pull something like that off?"
"It's a secret. If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
Castiel's eyes widened. He'd spent the last hour or so convincing himself that Dean didn't pose a threat. And now he had to go and say that? Maybe he was wrong about Dean after all. Afraid, he felt his shoulders tense.
"It's strange, though. The way you're helping me," Dean carried on, as if he hadn't just threatened Castiel, "A pampered member of the elite like you, housing a demon? If the government finds out about this, you can forget this house and you can definitely forget your acceptance into the honors program."
"Yeah, it'll be pretty bad," Castiel agreed. He had a point. The last time he'd ever heard of a person housing a demon was… well, never. No one dared to do such a thing. The demons were the human race's enemy; furthermore, they were kept out of the city and away from any people who'd even consider such a treasonous act.
"Are you nuts or something?"
Castiel almost toppled backwards. Dean had scooted closer and now held the frightened boy's right wrist in a vice grip. "Whatever happens to you has got nothing to do with me. But I'd feel terrible if something happened to you because of me."
The sentiment shocked Castiel. How could someone go from spewing threats to being concerned for someone else's well-being in such a short amount of time? Castiel couldn't keep up with the rollercoaster of emotions. Dean huffed and set the tray off to the side. He shifted and wormed his way beneath the covers, burying his face in Castiel's pillow.
"Then tell me how you managed to get past the police," Castiel whispered, watching the back of Dean's head as he tossed and turned in an attempt to get comfortable.
"Can you forget something once you've heard it? Can you pretend that you know nothing?"
Castiel wanted to say that yes, he most certainly could. But, yet again, his urge to be honest with Dean overpowered his desire to gather information. He simply stayed quiet and waited for his cynical new companion to finish. It felt like he had more to say.
"That's what I thought. And you know what? In exchange, I won't tell anyone about the fact that you scream like a little girl," Dean purred.
"What? You saw that?"
"The better question is how could someone not? I was hiding in the garden down there, and you can imagine my surprise when I looked up and saw you standing out on the porch, screaming your damn head off."
"Wait a-"
"At first, I thought maybe I had the wrong house. I thought that a boy named 'Castiel' lived here, but it didn't sound like a boy."
"Shut up!" Castiel cried. Furious, he reached for the covers, ready to pull them back and confront Dean face to face. How dare he say that! A demon had no room to talk. Castiel had heard of the species' strange quirks and capabilities, such as the infamous black eyes.
Before his fingers could close around the sheets, Dean beat him to the punch-line. He threw the covers off of his body and shoved his hands against Castiel's chest. With surprising speed, Dean pushed him down onto the mattress and wrapped his hands around his wrists, holding them firmly in place above Castiel's head. He straddled the boy's waist and used his new position to render him completely immobile.
Castiel's mouth hung open, gaping at the wild eyes peering down at him with murderous intent. Dean brought the spoon he'd used to eat his soup to Castiel's neck and slid it across the defenseless boy's throat, directly above his jugular vein. With a manic grin on his lips, he leaned forward, and, for a fleeting moment, Castiel thought he was going to kiss him.
But, at the last second, he changed direction and brought his lips over to Castiel's ear. Their foreheads were nearly touching, and he couldn't quite figure out why his mind needed to remind him of such an unimportant detail. What did it matter? He should be more concerned about his defenseless position and the cold metal pressed against his skin, shouldn't he?
"If this were a knife," Dean whispered, voice low and even raspier than usual, "you'd already be dead."
Dean's breath ghosted across the sensitive skin just below Castiel's ear, eliciting a full-body shiver from his current victim. He didn't seem to notice- or simply didn't care- about the reaction and stilled.
This, being pinned down and threatened, should've frightened Castiel. He should've been shaking with fear, not shivering because his body took a liking to the way Dean's breathing tickled his skin. The sensation left him feeling exhilarated instead of afraid. The gears in his head immediately began to turn, kindling Castiel's fascination with the unknown.
"Amazing!"
"Huh?" Dean leaned back to look at Castiel's face, confused by the sudden outburst.
"How can you immobilize someone so quickly?" Castiel wondered. He wished that he knew how to do such a thing. The technique would come in handy if he ever found himself in a dangerous situation. Of course, the likelihood of encountering actual danger in No.6 seemed awfully slim. "Are there certain pressure points that you hit?"
It was Dean's turn to gape at Castiel. Since he'd barged in, Dean's emotions had ranged from unsure to angry to smug. Not once had he looked so baffled. For some reason, the thought made Castiel swell with pride. He'd managed to surprise the know-it-all demon.
Castiel was about to ask where he'd learned to master something like that, especially at his age, but Dean suddenly collapsed on top of him. He buried his face in the pillow beside Castiel's head, filling the room with the charming sound of muffled laughter. Dean still held Castiel's arms above his head, but his grip slackened, loosely wrapped around the motionless boy's wrists in a way that suddenly felt more intimate than it did threatening.
"You really are insane, Cas. A real nutjob," Dean chuckled, shaking the entire bed as his body released a steady stream of genuine laughter.
Cas. No one had ever called him by that name before. Not his mother, not even his childhood friend. The short, three-letter word seemed like it belonged on Dean's lips, though, as if it had been made for them.
"You've got a fever," Castiel supplied weakly, hoping that Dean would move and put an end to the confusing thoughts swimming in his head. To his disappointment and, secretly, his delight, the hysterical boy completely ignored Castiel and didn't budge. "You should take some antibiotics," he tried again.
Dean's laughter slowly tapered down to tiny huffs against Castiel's pillow. The bed no longer shook, and the pleasant vibrations from the rapid rising and falling of Dean's chest stopped. "No, thanks. I think I'm just going to go to sleep now," Dean mumbled.
The room felt warmer than it had before. Dean quietly turned his head to face Castiel and slowly released his hold on the other boy's wrists. Castiel thought of moving away, but an arm snaking around his neck erased any such notion. Satisfied with the shift, Dean sighed contentedly and slung his right leg over Castiel's waist, moving so that only half his body covered the other boy's.
Strange. That was the first word that came to mind. But it wasn't an uncomfortable sort of strange. It was actually more of a pleasantly surprised kind of strange, the kind of strange that made Castiel feel warm and fuzzy, even warmer than when Anna had placed a gentle kiss on his cheek earlier that day. The sensation would be difficult to describe with mere words. If it were one of his school assignments, to describe the way it felt to be held by Dean, it would surely be the first one Castiel failed.
"Living people," Dean muttered, voice thick with the telltale slur of impending sleep, "are so warm."
And, just as Castiel suspected, Dean drifted off to sleep shortly after. The stoic set of his jaw looked softer like this, beckoning Castiel to reach out and brush his knuckles across it. It probably felt nice. And the lopsided grin looked honest and open, unlike any expression that crossed Dean's face when he was fully conscious. As creepy as it might sound, Castiel couldn't tear his gaze away from the peaceful expression on the softly snoring boy's face. He hadn't even realized demons required sleep.
Was… was it a lie? Had the government been issuing false information about demons? The implications made Castiel nauseous. If the government had spent the last few centuries misinforming its people about the creatures beyond its city's walls, what other information would it justify twisting until it fit its expectations?
Castiel hesitantly brought his hand up to rest between Dean's shoulder blades. He drew him in a little closer, satisfied by the content sigh that slipped past his parted lips. As his fingers drifted across the sweater's thick fabric, his mind wandered to the scar on Dean's back.
Dean had been shot. Someone his age- shot. It was a disgusting thought. What kind of people would do such a thing? He didn't know Dean's full backstory, but he assumed that the hideous mark was the result of another gunshot wound. Not only had he been shot at once; he'd been shot at multiple times.
Doubt had clung to the fringes of Castiel's mind for several years now. It had waited patiently on the outskirts, tugging his conscious around in an attempt to show him something startling, something frightening and horrifyingly true. This couldn't possibly be a utopia. The city, No.6, was far from being the ideal society.
And from that point forward, Castiel knew with certainty that nothing would ever be the same.